The Only Praetor
by Wintry Tales
Summary: Reyna has to keep her emotions in check in the face of public. But in the privacy of her room, Reyna finally acknowledges her actual feelings of being left alone to act as praetor. Some brief ideas of what might have happened between Reyna and Jason during the battle on Mount Othrys and the time before his disappearance. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Heroes of Olympus' or any of the characters. **

Reyna stumbled into her room and shut the door behind her, locking it for extra measure. She did not want anyone disturbing her right now—not Octavian, with his crazed looks and ripped teddy bears; not even Percy, or Jason—not that they were still here, anyway. She just wanted to be alone, just for a little while.

A simple request like that was too much to ask as the only praetor, shouldering a job meant for two people. Being a praetor wasn't an easy task, and Reyna had realised it too late. She hardly believed it when the former praetor told her so. She had no problems leading troops into battle, her mother being Bellona the goddess of war and all. Not that leadership bothered her anyway. She was a born leader, and it came naturally to her. The other Romans never dared to disobey her orders. One look, one word was more than enough to send them scrambling to their respective duties.

She kicked her sandals off and unfastened her purple cloak, letting it fall to the floor like a used rag. Shoving it aside with her foot, she allowed herself to collapse onto the bed. She rolled over and lay face-down on her pillow, hardly caring if her robes were creased. Her hands grabbed the edge of her pillow and she buried her face in it, and held her breath for a few seconds as if she were drowning. Which she was technically, in a sudden explosion of feelings and thoughts.

So many things had happened in the past year. When she was declared praetor by the exultant Romans, she had imagined that her life would be perfect from then on, holding the reins of power and ruling New Rome side by side with the boy she looked up to. Jason was the only person she allowed herself to trust. They had fought together on Mount Othrys after all. He was the one who had held her hand and stayed by her side when the others thought that she was dying and deserted her. She was the one who gave him moral support which allowed him to defeat Krios and savour ultimate victory.

But as life began to return to normal, Jason disappeared. She remembered the last Senate meeting before his disappearance. They were in the midst of a heated argument between Octavian and the rest of the Senate. She had gotten somewhat sidetracked, and had her eyes fixated on Jason's side profile. She allowed her gaze to linger on his piercing eyes, his handsome and strong features and the firm set of his lips. In the depths of her heart, she felt the stirrings of an unfamiliar feeling that she had not yet learnt the name of. As Octavian was waving one of his teddy bears in the air and screeching at the top of his lungs, Jason turned to her with an eyebrow raised. They exchanged a smile of mutual understanding, and for once, just for that once, Reyna allowed her feelings to surface, in the little blush that coloured her cheeks. And she was rather certain that Jason sensed it, from the knowing look in his eyes.

Seeing Jason at the girl's—what was her name again?—side made her stomach twist in a painful way. She sensed the blood rushing to her head and her lips turning down in a disapproving frown. Sensing a glance from Annabeth, she quickly rearranged her features and smoothed her brows to assume a nonchalant look. But Annabeth had caught that intangible change in her expression. Reyna's hands balled up into fists as she recalled that daughter of Minerva's accurate sense of perception. That girl knew too much.

Reyna rolled over to her back and released a long sigh, relaxing her tensed shoulders a little. Her voice was hoarse from calming the anxious Romans all day. She fixed her gaze upon the symbol engraved on the ceiling of her room—the symbol of Bellona. For an unknown reason the sight of the symbol caused a sudden stab of pain through her heart. A tear escaped from the corners of her and rolled down the side of her face. The toughest job of being a praetor was to put on a strong face before all of Rome. It mattered not how she felt inside. A look of fear, a moment of doubt, a quivering of the lip—all signs of weakness had to be hidden behind a smooth veneer of toughness. Every minute movement of her muscles had to be controlled precisely, as to not let her true feelings show. A little slip could cause the Romans to lose faith in their leader and drive the camp into frenzy.

"I am the daughter of Bellona, Roman goddess of war," She whispered to herself. This became her mantra, the only words of comfort she could give herself, those sleepless nights as she laid in her bed, clutching the bed sheets and warding away those emotions which were worse than nightmares. They threatened to overpower her, to crush her and break her until she was a snivelling and sobbing mess. The feelings that were bottled in during the day overwhelmed her with full force during the night, when she was all alone in this spacious room without everyone staring at her every movement. These emotions engulfed her like a tidal wave, and many nights she felt herself slipping into the depths of a tumultuous sea, as she drifted in and out of troubled sleep—

The sea. She bit her lip and tried not to think about it. "I must be strong" She whispered to herself, but today these words offered no comfort. The image of her mother's symbol faded as Percy's face appeared in her mind's eye. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, trying to dispel the image that was beginning to haunt her thoughts. She concentrated until his features slowly dissolved, leaving that pair of sea-green eyes which slowly faded into grey. And she found herself staring, face-to-face, into the memory of her first and last long conversation with Annabeth.

"We'd never do this!" Annabeth's anxious voice echoed in her mind. Trust. Percy had told her to trust his Greek friends. And trust was what she gave, but trouble was what she got in return. She could have forgiven Percy for leaving abruptly with his friends—he had been Greek after all. But she resented Jason—hated him, even, for leaving on that ship even if he had been unconscious at that time. He had left her alone, once again.

A round of frantic knocking roused her from her thoughts. Octavian's voice could be heard clearly from the other side of the door, urging her to hurry and open up. Another crisis to be solved, she thought, retrieving her crumpled cloak from the foot of her bed and smoothing down the creases on her robes. She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and adjusted the silver ring around her finger. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she threw back her shoulders, held her head high and schooled her expression into one of power and determination. Gritting her teeth, she took a deep breath and threw the door open, ready to shoulder her duties as the only praetor all over again.


End file.
